


Shido's Last Party

by officialvampyr



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Banter, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Flirting, Heist AU, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, No knowledge of Dishonored is needed btw, Phantom Thieves are Real thieves, Unhappy Ending, depictions of violence, heavily inspired by Dishonored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialvampyr/pseuds/officialvampyr
Summary: One last mission, one final heist. Half the city can see the lights from Shido's yacht and dream of the delights waiting inside. Will it be torn to pieces? Either way, it's Shido's last party.Going to a party, Joker? Is that what you dreamed of in prison, waiting for the executioner? Wealth, beautiful women in the latest fashions, laughing and drinking wine? And what of the host, Shido? I can see all his tomorrows and I know that either he dies tonight or he'll live out his days, month after month, year after year, far away...Not quite a Dishonored AU, but heavily inspired by such.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Kudos: 29





	Shido's Last Party

**Author's Note:**

> In a city under influence of corruption, the Phantom Thieves have been taking matters into their own hands; blackmailing and extorting their victims into confessing their crimes. And after all their work, it's finally time to end it.
> 
> But there's more to the story than thieves stealing evidence.
> 
> This is a story about a thief and a detective, who are very much aware of the other person's identity, but cannot help but be drawn into the thrill of it anyway.

The light form Shido’s yacht could be seen from across the city, a shining beacon on the water. It was magnificent in the way that most expensive things were: shiny, brilliant, effervescent, even if entirely insignificant. It was nothing more than a grandiose display of money, and like most things, it was gilded to over up the putrid and festering filth within it.

Mona’s skipper glides smoothly across the water, undeterred by the large wakes created by the yacht. The mass display of lights makes it easy for the smaller boat to pull up effortlessly beside it, any noise from the engine drowned out by the large engine and music blaring beside them. Joker stares up at the ship with a mixture of awe and annoyance. He can see his entry point approaching, and he readies his grappling hook in his hand, index finger tapping against the barrel. “You seem anxious,” Mona says from his place at the rudder, carefully navigating. His gaze follows Joker’s, though, up into the depths of the yacht. “You should be. There are lots of guards around. Shido didn’t pull out any stops tonight.”

“He must’ve got our message,” Joker replies neutrally, watching as a guard pivots on the deck. From this angle, they’re hidden from view, but his heart still hammers with uncertainty in the moments when the guard casts his gaze over to the sea. It would be unfortunate for their mission—their final, most important mission—to be over before it even began.

“Half the city can see the lights from the party,” Mona muses. “Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? Everyone dreams of the kind of stuff that goes on in there.”

“Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Mona?” he asks, with a hint of his usual playfulness. A smirk toys at his features, and Mona mirrors it.

He crosses his arms. “Not exactly. You’ve got it handled.” They pull up to the location and Mona adjusts speed so they’re moving with the ship. “Remember what we talked about and don’t do anything reckless.” Once again, Mona’s piercing blue eyes wander up the side of the ship. “There are many possibilities for the way tonight will end,” he says cryptically, as if he can sense something, “but either way, it’s Shido’s last party.”

Joker taps his left ear, turning on the com device. He gives his driver a thumbs up before standing uneasily, not quite used to the water yet. He stabilizes, aims his grappling hook, and fires, abandoning the small skipper and sailing across the side of the ship, beneath the lower level of windows and swinging with an upwards momentum, until he sails through an open window and into a darkened room. He takes a few breaths, waiting for any movement in case the room isn’t as abandoned as they’d planned, but when all is clear, he straightens his tailcoat and adjusts his gloves.

_“I still think it’s unfair you have to do this alone,”_ a voice sighs into his ear. _Panther_.

_“Yeah. C’mon, man, why did you leave your whole team home?”_ Skull whines, and Joker smiles.

Before he can even respond, Mona snaps, _“Because none of you are discreet enough. The fewer the better. Joker can get this done faster than all of us.”_

“It is a little lonely, though,” Joker admits. While it is true, trying to get all of the _Thieves_ onto the massive yacht would be a logistic nightmare. Skull, for one, had absolutely no talent with a grappling hook, and had about as much tact as an angry warthog (which is nothing against Skull, of course; he’s his best friend). Panther could have charmed her way in, and likely would have done quite well on the yacht. Noir, too, would likely have been a good choice; her familiarity with the elite would have been beneficial. The alternative was to forge or steal invitations from wealthy elite and brazenly walk onto the ship with the rest of the guests, which was also a logistic nightmare. This was the only option, and at the end of the day, he was the best choice for this, and he _deserved_ this after everything Shido had done to him.

_“We’re with you in spirit_ ,” Queen says.

_“Some of us more intimately than others,”_ Oracle chirps. _“Careful coming out that room, Joker, there are guards walking through.”_

_“I thought the whole point was for him to be noticed?”_ Fox asks.

_“Grand entrances, Fox. Gotta have that Phantom Thief flair!”_ Oracle adds.

“We have a reputation to uphold, after all,” Joker agrees.

_Reputation_ was certainly an interesting word for the Phantom Thieves, given how many times it had been slandered and challenged. When this had all began, months ago now, it was simply about exposing a pedophilic, abusive high school teacher tormenting his students. It wasn’t anything like this; there was no elaborate breaking and entering, no convoluted schemes and ideals, no weapons or grappling hooks. It was not a heist, not in the traditional sense; not something one might read about in a book full of excitement and adventure. It was a well-placed camera, a hidden microphone, and a recording that would end his career. They liked to claim it was a change of heart—and it was, to an extent, even if this change was prompted by blackmail or extortion. It snowballed into vandalism: breaking into the art gallery of one of the most famous artists, accused of plagiarism, and spray-painting the names of the original artists on the pieces. It snowballed into proving the same artist was selling forged, mass-market produced copies of stolen work, leading to a confession. Another change of heart. Crime bosses, hacker groups, exploitative CEOs—all brought to their knees. And if the blackmail wasn’t accepted? They simply released the information into the world. It grew much bigger than them so suddenly, and with it came even more layers of deceit.

As their popularity grew, their motives became challenged, and people began to wonder if they were truly doing the right thing. Then, naturally, the murders started. The death of the CEO after his confession, putting the entire group into hot water. The investigation of a detective on the case, leading them into a trap. The capture of the leader—of _him_. It was all just the tip of the ice burg, but the simple fact was this: the Phantom Thieves were not murderers, and they had every intention of unveiling who was behind the killings, but first, they have a corrupt politician to take care of.

Once the coast is clear, he traipses into the main hall, where guests are still making acquaintances and champagne is being passed out. Being a Phantom Thief is about being elusive, and no one notices him until he _wants_ to be noticed—and in the center of the room, he comes alive, as if reborn under the mask and the coat. Whispers abound suddenly, awestruck little noises and even a few chastising remarks. Somewhere beside him, a woman in a moth-head mask says to her companion, “I’ve always admired a man with little self-preservation.”

He smiles with too much teeth, pointedly looking at each guard stationed around the room. None of them move, but all of them turn to him with rapt attention.

_“I’m catching interception from their coms,_ ” Oracle says helpfully. _“Shido knows you’re here.”_

_“Just like we planned,”_ Mona agrees firmly.

Joker is careful not to approach the guests. They admire him, but it’s obvious they’re wary of him. Nobles were always like that; fascinated by the grotesque and morally ambiguous, but only from afar. He was like a lion on a leash, but they couldn’t see who was holding it.

“Is this one of Shido’s jokes?” a man in a rabbit-head mask asks. “It’s in poor taste.”

“I wonder who’s beneath the mask,” his companion says. “He looks young.”

“Probably just some brat. I bet it’s the son of—” and he doesn’t hear which noble he’s allegedly the son of, because he walks off. He’s appreciative of the rumors, though. He wants them to stew in their curiosity.

He makes his way through the main room and into the next, which is less crowded. He spies a guestbook on a podium and approaches it, looking at all the names scrawled on the pages. This, too, would be good blackmail material, he thinks; anyone close to Shido was bound to have secrets. He wishes, not for the first time, for his teammates to be there with him, if only to take notes and act where he could not. He picks up the fountain pen and scribbles out _Joker and the Phantom Thieves_ on the page before setting the pen back down.

_“Oo, did you sign it something funny?”_ Oracle asks.

Joker looks up, trying to identify the nearest security camera she could be watching him from. “I signed it as us.”

_“Hmm. Could be funnier.”_

“Everyone here seems to think it’s a hilarious joke.”

It was impossible for Oracle to find a schematic of the ship, so Joker has to resort to finding a pamphlet outlining the yacht to serve as a map. He skims it briefly, noting the layout, but as all pamphlets might have, it’s minimal in its information. He can see the cabins, the various decks, locations of food and ballroom, but nothing to indicate the location of Shido’s quarters. If he _had_ to guess, it was somewhere behind the spectacular wall of light that he could see blocking off an upstairs section. _Wall of light_ was a nice way of saying _electrical force field that could easily fry you if you walking within inches of it_ , and he can hear it crackling with energy. He would need to find a way around it, because shutting it down in such a public setting would be pretty obvious. He looks upwards, but sees no balconies or air shafts he could maneuver to. Everything in this ship seems painfully _open_ , and he assumes it was all done intentionally. “I need to get past that wall without turning into a French fry.”

_“Well if I was there, I could hack it. Did you know you could reverse engineer them to target the bodyguards instead?”_

_  
“We’re trying not to have any casualties!”_ Mona hisses.

_“This plan seems undercooked,”_ Skull cuts in helpfully. He then seems to realize what he’s said, because he cackles to himself and goes, _“Cooked. Get it? Because fried.”_

To which Joker simply says, “We did the best we could.” He crosses his arms. “I’m sure Shido’s beyond that wall. I’ll look for a way through.”

They had prepared for this, at least: giving Joker plenty of time to familiarize himself with the yacht. He didn’t have _all_ the time in the world, though. They still had a deadline to adhere to. He goes left, towards the side entrance that looped around to the back deck, which was part of the glowing beacon that could be seen for miles. The whole area was covered in lights, draped overhead and wrapped around poles, rails, and fake cypresses. This would be the easiest way to get upstairs, but the amount of people on the deck, soaking in the warm evening air, made it impossible to grapple up to a higher level without drawing attention to himself.

He swipes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, tries to make himself blend into the crowd, even if it seems impossible. Everywhere he goes, people avoid him, as if they’re scandalized by his very presence. He ignores them and effortlessly makes his way across the deck, coattails fluttering in the wind behind him. He finds himself a spot near the bow, resting his forearms against the railing. The music is quieter here, and he feels the comfort of the shadows.

“Impressive Joker mask,” a voice says behind him, so close it makes him freeze. He hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, and he curses himself for letting his guard down. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was the genuine article.” His grip tightens imperceptibly on his flute of champagne, and he has but seconds to adhere a polite, genuine smile onto his face before he turns to greet him. That voice… he would know that voice anywhere.

He turns, slowly, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, and comes face-to-face with a prince. Not a prince in the traditional sense, perhaps. There is a lack of armor and metal, but definitely something more fairytale about him instead. He wears a white coat with red embellishments, golden epaulettes flashing in the low light of the ship deck. There’s even a sword at his hip, which Joker can’t immediately tell is fake or real. Fluttering behind him is a red half-cape, adding to the majestic appearance of his. His brunette hair cascades over a pointed red mask, almost Venetian in its composition, and behind it, his eyes flash. He removes his mask, though, for some reason, as if Joker didn’t know him already.

Joker rests a hand against his abdomen and pivots forward in a sweeping bow, smirk tugging at his lips. “Your highness,” he says, with honeyed sweetness. He casts his eyes upwards just in time to see an affectionate little eyeroll before that charming little mask—the metaphorical one that he always wears—is secured back in place. The bird-like mask is still clutched in his right hand. “Or perhaps I should call you detective?”

“Just Goro tonight,” he replies, and Joker can’t remember if he had ever been on a first-name basis with the famed _Detective Prince_.

Joker doesn’t comment on this, though. The hired guards creeping about the yacht are indication enough that Shido received the _Phantom Thieves’_ calling card, and Akechi himself was lead detective on the case. It would make sense for the two to be conspiring with one another, and it wouldn’t surprise him at all to find that Shido had the police department in his pocket. Unable to help prying into that, Joker says, “I didn’t know one of the city’s finest detectives was such close friends with a politician of Shido’s caliber.”

His gaze sharpens and Joker immediately knows he’s toed the line. Something in him slips, and he says, “I am Shido’s—” but he quickly cuts himself off, seeming to remember himself. “It doesn’t matter. I failed to see your name on the guest list, Kurusu.”

_Kurusu_. He smiles, sharper this time. “Joker,” he corrects playfully, pointing to his mask.

Another eye-roll, less fond this time. “You’re really committing to this act?” he retorts. “Very well. I guess I can indulge you.” He takes a step forward, into his space, hand reaching for the lapel of his coat. He doesn’t grasp it, but simply smooths his hand across it, as if to eliminate already nonexistent wrinkles. “Must’ve been hard to find a coat like this,” he comments, in that way of his that sends Joker’s heart pounding uncomfortably. “It truly does look _authentic_.”

Joker leans into him, smiling. He’s always enjoyed a little danger, and this felt like pressing his forehead into the barrel of a loaded gun. “Are you accusing me of something?” he asks politely. “Should’ve brought your handcuffs, detective.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t?” he purrs back, neither backing down or away. “Pretty gutsy of you to come dressed like this,” he continues, still admiring the attire. Joker preens under his gaze, squaring his shoulders and angling his chin up just so to catch Akechi’s gaze.

“You know me,” he says, deliberately leaning close again. Their faces are close—too close. Akechi’s breath tickles his jaw. “Never one to back down from a challenge.”

He hums thoughtfully, unimpressed. “That, or your arrogance. You _do_ know how to command a room.”

Joker can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not, so he says, “That’s not the only thing I can command.”

Akechi smiles, razor sharp. “Oh, _Joker_ ,” he sighs, “I hope you don’t mean to imply you can command _me_.”

On god, he wants to kiss him, wants to _be_ kissed. He wants Akechi to push him square into the railing on the deck, pinning him there; the railing digging into the small of his back and Akechi’s hands like a vice on his wrists (and maybe, just maybe, get too aggressive and try to push him over). It’s how he thinks such a confrontation would go, and what was a healthy tryst between rivals if there wasn’t a touch of violence with it? “You don’t seem like the kind of person who would respond well to commands.” Not that he exactly had a problem with that, either.

They stare at each other for a moment, unmoving. Akechi’s eyes blaze as they scan his, then flick to his mouth. Joker tries not to smirk, but can’t help it, and he wets his lip with a swipe of his tongue. The prince smirks, too, but breaks the spell by stepping out of the little bubble they had created. His lungs suddenly fill with salty sea-air, an unwelcome cleanse after inhaling Akechi’s cologne. He fixes the mask back on his face, making the thief realize that with it on, he likely would’ve got an eye poked out.

“I should be going,” Goro says. “Unfortunately, I have business to attend to.”

His ears prick at that, but he masks it with disappointment. He _is_ disappointed, of course. He knows what has to be done, but the evening becomes sweeter if he spends half of it flirting with his rival. “Will we see each other again?” There’s a touch of genuine sadness in his voice, and to be frank, Joker can’t tell if he simply means tonight, or if he means it in the grander sense. It was all supposed to end tonight, after all.

“I hope so,” Akechi says, and he also sounds genuine. “Will you save a dance for me, Joker?”

He smiles, softer this time. “Before or after the clock strikes midnight? Do I have to worry about your carriage turning into a pumpkin?”

“Maybe I’ll give you a glove in lieu of a glass slipper,” he muses wryly, angling his head upwards, looking at one of the higher levels. “Until later, then, Kurusu.”

He doesn’t correct him. No one is close enough to hear his name be said, anyway. He’s more curious about what could be waiting up on the higher levels of the ship that would draw Akechi’s attention. He may not be _working_ , no badge nor gun, but he’s certainly _up_ to something, and Joker would like to find out what it is. He downs the remainder of his champagne and sets the empty flute on a nearby table and pulls out his map. It’s time to get to work.

_The ship, of course, is just as convoluted as they had expected. Even with a map, it’s impossible to decipher where things might be, and it doesn’t help that half the ship is barricaded by an electrical field. The upper levels were unreachable via grappling hook solely because of the amount of elites wandering around the decks and in the rooms. With the amount of people on board, Joker’s surprised that he was even able to get on the ship without being noticed. It’s a miracle, in some way, and while he is a phantom thief, some things just aren’t possible. Oracle has deciphered that the wall is likely connected to some kind of device, that patrons wear that enables them to get to the upper levels; she suggested it might be a broach or a pin, and for Joker to keep a sharp eye and a smart hand ready to pilfer something._

_At the behest of stealing from wealthy patrons, Joker makes his way back to the ballroom; a live orchestra in the corner sends waves of classical music throughout the room, a piercing violin crescendoing. People swarm about, completely anonymous to him through their variety of masks. He sees the moth-headed woman from earlier, as well as many bunny-masked patrons. He sees foxes and bears and Venetian-styled masks all gathering in a dizzying array of colors and textures. Flashes of fabric and feathers obscure his view, painting the ballroom in reds, whites, and even muted browns. Joker grounds himself against the sensory overload, trying to focus on the ship’s natural scent of old wood and bergamot._

He wonders, idly, if Akechi is somewhere in this crowd. He doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy such grandeur, but Joker had already been wrong once tonight; this is the last place he’d expect to find Goro Akechi to begin with.

“Did you come for that dance?” a voice says in his ear, and Joker once again wonders how Goro Akechi is so adept at sneaking up on him. He could be a thief in his own right, he thinks; he’s light on his feet and always seems to know when Joker is just distracted enough to get the jump on him. Not for the first time, Joker marvels at how strong of an opponent he would make—and also not for the first time, Joker feels the desire to test his limits with him.

He turns to face him, unsurprised that he was so close. Akechi didn’t seem to mind personal space—not with him, at least. He’s smiling politely, _princely_. Joker extends a hand to him. “I’ve been thinking about it all evening,” he says, and he means it. Between running across the goddamn yacht all night, he _has_ spent a considerable amount of time thinking of Akechi, hoping he was waiting for him somewhere. In another life, perhaps on any other night, they could have spent the party in each other’s company, perhaps even in each other’s arms, but that is not Joker’s fate tonight.

Akechi takes his hand and rests his other on Joker’s hip, obviously intending on leading. In return, Joker puts his hand on Akechi’s shoulder, and in the next beat, they’re spinning across the dance floor. “Looks like you’ve had a busy evening,” Akechi says, conversationally, once a rhythm is established—or perhaps when he realizes Joker is just as agile on his toes as ever, and that he won’t misstep.

“You know, business as usual,” he replies evasively.

He hums thoughtfully. “What business could _you_ have here, Kurusu?” he asks.

“Joker,” he corrects again.

“My apologies. What business could you, a dead man, have here?” he asks, sharper this time. This causes Akira to grin under his mask, because he’s right: the real Joker is supposed to be dead, a suicide in an interrogation room.

He feels… bare in front of Goro, and despite the mask secured to his face, he feels very _Akira_ in this moment. The mask isn’t just a physical means of distancing, but it’s a metaphorical one, too. He’s a different person with the mask on, more confident and self-assured, and Goro sees through it as if it doesn’t exist. “I’ve been here all along, Goro,” Akira says. “You came to Leblanc just last week.”

Beneath his own mask, Goro’s gaze is inscrutable. “You went home, didn’t you, Kurusu? Back to your family in the countryside. Such a strange time to take a trip.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You have exams coming up, don’t you? Seems inopportune.”

“Careful, Goro, or I might think this is an interrogation,” he purrs, leaning close.

He smiles pleasantly. “Merely observations.”

Meeting Goro Akechi was fated, he thinks, and what a cruel twist it was indeed. It was no mere coincidence that the universe had sent him to Akira in the way that it had—briefcase in hand, arriving at the coffee shop where he both worked and lived. It was no coincidence that they had talked, indulged in each other’s company, and it was certainly no coincidence that there was palpable chemistry between them. Looking back on the months they had spent together, Akira isn’t sure when Goro began to acquire his suspicions about his identity. Was it when they went on a date to the café? The aquarium? The jazz club? Billiards? Goro Akechi always seemed to know something intimate about Akira, and he was too sharp for his own good. But for everything Goro knew of him, Akira similarly knew of Goro. _If we want the rewards of being loved…_

The thieves had all warned him against getting close to Goro Akechi, because every time he did, he got closer to the Phantom Thieves. He knew he could not jeopardize his friends, nor their missions, but there was also something about Goro that he couldn’t keep away from. He walked a tightrope, and it was the most thrilling thing he had ever done. Every time he’s with him, Akira thinks about the _What If_ s.

What if they had met sooner?

What if they’d been friends?

_What if Goro kissed him?_

Akira may not be a detective, but it doesn’t take one to know that Goro is more dangerous than he lets on. The thief has no illusions of grandeur, no hope for a happy ending. He knows how this ends, the way that cruel fate has sunk its claws into their lives: they’re fated to kill each other, and now, dancing with Goro on the ship of his target, Akira can feel just that. He can almost feel a knife being pressed to his throat, or the underside of his ribs, and he can’t help but think that he could only be so lucky as to die in Akechi’s arms.

“You seem close to Shido. Should I be worried about something, detective?” Akira asks pleasantly.

His gaze hardens, and he’s unable to stop a frown from appearing. “Why do you say that?”

“You could get behind the wall of light. It’ll fry anyone else. I also saw you with him in the dining hall.”

“Quite observant, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I just like you,” Joker says.

Goro’s grip on his hand tightens a little. “You trust me, then?”

He smiles because he doesn’t trust him, not in the slightest. “There’s a rumor going around that Shido received a calling card from the Phantom Thieves. Is that why you’re here?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Believe it or not, my life does not revolve around work.”

“So you’re here for pleasure?”

He gives Akira a deliberate once-over that sends a shiver down his spine. “That has yet to be seen.”

The song begins to slow, reaching its conclusion. They always seem to be out of time. Their steps slow; Akira reluctant to let go, Akechi as indiscernible as ever. “If you’re not here for work, then care to have a drink with me?” he asks.

He swallows, internally debating. He refuses to make eye-contact with him for a moment, instead glancing about at their surroundings. It’s suspicious, Akira notes. He doesn’t need confirmation that Akechi is up to something, but this surely does. _He’s on a deadline, too, or perhaps he’s being watched_.

“What do you have to lose, detective?” he asks, pressing harder, because he wants this—not as a distraction, but as a permanent fixture. He thinks of their time together in the past, the coffee dates, the walks in the park, every time their hands glanced each other and every time they huddled together under the awning in front of Leblanc. He wants, so badly, for that to be theirs.

There’s a hardness about him, though, as if he might lose a lot. “Tonight’s very important, Joker,” he says solemnly. “You and I both have our roles to play, don’t we?” He leans forward, slips something into Akira’s breast-pocket. “I expect my rival to be sharper, but I’ll give you this. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Help with what?”

But Akechi’s already walking away again, as swift and agile as ever, before disappearing into the crowds.

Akira sighs. _Time to get to work._

_It takes him a surprising amount of time to figure out what he’d been gifted by Goro Akechi. Not only did the object work to get him through the wall of light, just as Oracle had predicted, but it was also a master keycard—he could get through any room and any locked door he needed, easily slipping past guards and unwanted attention._

_It’s not sufficient, however, at helping him find the information he needs._

_Every room is its own labyrinth, filled with texts and documents that may or may not be useful. He, not for the first time, wishes his team was with him to help sort through papers. Instead, he finds himself skimming emails, voice recordings, and files to piece together the convoluted crimes of Masayoshi Shido. He uncovers his research into Psionics, the amount of money he put into it, the connection he had to Oracle’s mother—It’s a lot to take in._

_It’s not until much later, when the clock begins to strike midnight, that Akira finds something he really wished he hadn’t found._

_His hands shake as he lifts up an email, documenting the crimes of one Goro Akechi, and his involvement with the mental shutdowns. More importantly, it details how Shido and his team plan on terminating Goro after all was said and done—after they were done using him. He shoves the paper into his pocket and looks up…_

The fireworks begin, and Joker knows he’s running out of time.

The guests vacate the interior of the ship, flooding to the decks to catch a glimpse of the spectacular light show. He hears them run through the hallways, pokes his head out just in time to watch them go with all their glimmer and splendor, gold and diamonds and pearls twinkling as they go. He makes no show of following, simply lets the party-goers dart past him with child-like wonder as the lights dim and flashes of blue, purple, gold create a magnificent, strobe-like display across the ballroom. There are four keys in his pocket, stolen off of various elites close to Shido, that enable him to get into the private room (Akechi’s master key, unfortunately, was not sufficient at opening the inner sanctum of the yacht). The light from the fireworks cast long shadows across the floor, elongating and twisting Joker’s own shadow as he darts across the ballroom unabated.

He slips the keys into the elaborate mechanism and turns the lock, finally entering the heart of the ship.

Even though it’s dark, it’s just as elaborate as the rest of the ship. To Joker, however, it looks insignificant, almost indistinct from the other rooms, and he can’t quite tell why this one is so special. It doesn’t matter, he supposes.

The room is set up to be a sitting room, with plenty of plush sofas and walls lined with bookshelves. There’s an extravagant window that overlooks the bow of the ship, making the whole thing resemble the captain’s quarters of a pirate ship. He makes notes of key features of the room; a large desk with locked drawers, a door separating another room, liquor cabinet and armoire, but no sign of a safe. And of course, most notable of all, were two figures at the head of the room, in front of the large set of windows. He can’t see details, their figures mere silhouettes against the colorful lights of the fireworks.

One of them he recognizes, the same figure he’d seen outlined by a car’s headlights, a shape that’s been burned into his mind for over a year. Masayoshi Shido is bound and gagged, tied to a chair. He doesn’t squirm, as if it’s undignified of him, and the second individual in the room doesn’t move, either. They’re like statues, he thinks, almost as perfect as all of the grandiose statues of himself Shido had planted throughout the yacht. He focuses on the second figure, the one standing, the one with a gun to Shido’s head. Through the flashes of light he notes a skin-tight black and blue ensemble, impressively clawed gauntlets, and a sharp, blackened mask. It’s full-faced, but something about it seems… familiar. The pointed edges, perhaps, that nearly resemble a bird’s beak. Curling horns arch over the mask and when the figure turns, he catches a glint of a red visor shielding his eyes.

“Joker,” he coos, voice cutting through the silence as the fireworks sizzle and pause, as rolling as a thunderstorm. “About time you showed up.”

And that voice—that voice that Joker would know anywhere—chills him to the bone. It’s not _surprise_ , per se, but… an unfortunate acceptance of the inevitable, he supposes. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he forces himself to say, slowly taking a step forward. The man—Black Mask—seems to have no intention of moving. Mona’s words from earlier echo in his ear. _There are multiple possibilities for the way tonight will end._ He takes a few more steps forward, pausing when Black Mask adjusts the gun in his hand, finger feathering the trigger. “I gotta say, I think I liked your prince outfit better,” he says softly. “Goro Akechi.”

He nearly misses the soft little chuckle, muffled by the mask. He holsters his gun, uses his free hand to remove the top half of his mask. Shaggy brunette hair cascades across the sharp edges of his neck plate, the lower half of the mask that protects his jaw. “You were fond of a lie, Joker,” he replies.

He cocks his head to the side, regarding him. “Are you saying this the true you?” he asks.

Akechi shrugs, the gesture emphasized by the tight costume, like Joker could see every muscle etched onto his back. “Does it matter anymore?”

_Yes_ , he thinks, immediately. It’s always mattered. “Is this where you give your villainous monologue?” he says instead.

There’s a sharp smile. “Don’t make the mistake of pretending like you know me, Joker.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I? You were waiting for me.”

“I was waiting to show you that your version of _justice_ is ineffective and misguided.”

Joker steps closer to them now, carefully. Black Mask doesn’t reach for his gun, but with the claws on the gauntlets, he doesn’t think he even needs it. His claws noticeably tighten on Shido’s shoulder, piercing the suit, and despite the fact that his suit grows darker from the grip, stained and wet, he doesn’t make a sound. He wants to say something—anything—but finds himself coming up short. Of course this is their pivotal moment, their fated end, and he has nothing to say. What _could_ he say? Everything about this moment feels like a cliché. “I’m listening,” he forces himself to say, because he refuses to follow the script of _You don’t have to do this_ or _I know what you’re trying to do_.

Akechi—Black Mask—smirks at him. “Do you remember what I told you, Kurusu?” and he flinches at the use of his name, especially in front of Shido, but he also has to try not to laugh. “About my childhood?”

There isn’t a single thing about Goro Akechi that he’s forgotten. Call it an obsession, or perhaps call it a hopeless indulgence, but he could never fathom forgetting something he told him. They were precious, in some way, much more valuable than any treasure. Joker could steal practically anything, but trust was something earned, not taken.

But he had taken something from Akechi tonight, just as he had taken something from Shido. It was _their_ secret, and it felt like a betrayal to know it. This was it’s own betrayal though, wasn’t it? A breech between Akira and Goro—something they could never come back from. Something larger than _fated rivals_ , something much crueler. “Your father abandoned you and your mother.” At the mention of it, Black Mask’s grip tightens further, certainly piercing him deep with those claws now. Joker sucks in a breath and adds, “Masayoshi Shido is your father.”

His opponent smiles almost fondly. “I should have given you more credit, I suppose, or perhaps I should have kept a closer eye on you.” He quickly retracts those claws, and suddenly Shido isn’t able to hold back a scream. Blood drips from the gauntlet and onto the floor, and Goro merely admires it. “Yes, he is my father, although he’s never acknowledged me in any capacity. He ruined my mother’s life, lead to her suicide. He ruined _my_ life.”

“And you think killing him will make it better?”

His smile sharpens. “I can certainly tell you an apology won’t make it better.”

“The Phantom Thieves don’t kill people, Goro.”

“Why?” he asks, furious and outraged. “Do you think letting him rot in a cell would make this any better? You call that _justice_?” He rolls his eyes. “You’re so fucking _naïve_ , Joker.”

“And you’re _jaded_ by your ideals, Akechi.”

“Jaded?!” he snaps, and then he _laughs_ , a broken and feral sound. “You made yourself judge and jury, Joker. You and your thieves found the evidence for guilt. I merely acted where your _weakness_ didn’t allow you to as executioner.” He shakes his head. “Do you truly feel you’ve been doing the right thing? Or do you simply think that because it’s what your _friends_ think?”

In all honesty, he’s not sure. He stares hard at Goro. “I know what you’ve done, Akechi—what he’s made you do. He used you as his pawn.”

“No!” he snaps. “I used _him_.”

“You didn’t. He was planning on killing you, Akechi—”

“What do _you_ know?”

He reaches for the letter he’d tucked into his pocket and lifts it. “Quite a bit, actually. Will you talk with me?”

Akechi doesn’t move, but he does seem to hesitate. “No.” His resolve hardens. “Nothing you can say will change my decision. I’ve carved this path, Joker.”

“It’s not too late,” he finds himself saying anyway, despite his reluctance to fall into such tropes, and he grimaces.

He sighs, dramatically, stepping away from Shido. He retracts his claws sharply, and this time, the bound politician can’t help but whimper. Dark blood drips down Akechi’s fingertips, staining the floor. He strides forward, slow and deliberate, like a predator, raising that gauntlet to Akira’s throat. He swallows thickly as a claw glides up his neck, still-warm liquid dripping in a line down his throat, before Akechi grasps his jaw and holds him in place. “It’s always been too late,” he says softly, much softer than Akira had expected. “I asked you to join _me_ once.”

He’s sent backwards in time for a moment, back to months ago. A heist in an art museum, a man in a black mask extending the very same clawed gauntlet to him and asking, _“What if you abandoned your friends and joined me?”_ His voice had been distorted, but Akira felt like he should’ve known who it was even back then. Alone in the art gallery, the _Sayuri_ tucked under his arm, Joker had felt invincible. He had turned the Black Mask down, and he knew that was still the decision he would have made had he known who it was. Even then, he wasn’t acting on his own, he was being puppeteered by Shido.

“I know,” he says, and he almost sounds rueful. “I’m sorry.”

“And now what? You came to stop me? To _save_ me?”

Joker smiles fondly. “We both know how this ends.”

Akechi’s claws tighten, piercing his skin. “Yes.”

“You know I can’t let you do this.”

Akechi smirks, looking down to see Joker’s knife pressed against his ribs, waiting. “Do you have what it takes to kill me, Joker?” he purrs.

He’s not sure he does. He doesn’t _want_ to hurt his rival, his friend, his—

Well, he supposes he’ll never have a label for it now.

Before Joker can even comprehend responding, he finds himself shoved backwards. He catches himself quickly, the knife twisting around in his hand to assume a more offensive stance.

Things seem to happen quickly after that.

In the same moment that Akechi has turned back to Shido, they both realize that the politician is no longer tied up. He’s moving, low and fast, reaching for the gun at Akechi’s hip. The struggle, but Shido manages to grab the weapon and point it at them, quickly shifting between the two targets. They both freeze as Shido rips off the gag and spits onto the ground. “You bastard,” he hisses, but it’s unclear which of them he’s talking to.

“Put the gun down, Shido,” Joker commands, once he’s found his voice.

Akechi rolls his eyes.

“Like hell,” Shido snarls, all venom. “I’ll shoot you both. _You_ for knowing too much,” he says, pointing the gun at Akira, “and _you_ for everything else.”

Akechi has the nerve to laugh. “And you wanted to save him, Joker.”

He finds himself frowning. “It’s not about saving people, Akechi,” he replies. “I never wanted to save them. Their crimes deserved to be acknowledged.” And he can’t believe he’s having this conversation with him _now_ , at gun point. “You’re the only one I wanted to save.”

“Because you pity me.”

He feels exasperated. “Because I _love_ —”

“ _Shut up!”_

In that fatal moment, Akechi takes his eyes off Shido, turning to pit a glare at Akira instead. In that fatal moment, Shido raises the gun, sick of their dialogue, and he fires. The shot rings out, loud and screeching, causing his ears to scream from the harsh sound that no one bothered to muffle with a silencer. Why would they? It would just sound like another firework. Through the ringing, Akira can hear a body hit the floor.

He barely manages to make his body move to dodge a second shot, but he does, somehow. He leaps with the agility of an acrobat, landing behind the sofa, safely out of line of the shot. He has no time, though. His ears are still ringing and he can see the rug darkening with blood, can see the colorful lights of the fireworks bounce off of Akechi’s gauntlet. Not unmoving, he notes; his fingers twitch slightly, but it’s not enough to tell if the shot had been fatal.

_“Joker, get out of there!”_ a voice screams in his ear, and he can’t even tell who it is.

“I can’t leave him!”

“ _Joker, he’s gone.”_

But he couldn’t be—

Because even after everything that had happened… after all they had gone through…

If he couldn’t save _one person_ from the pain and misery of their abuser, what was the point of their justice?

Another shot, this time not a warning.

_“Goddammit, Joker,_ run!”

Shido rounded the corner, and once again, he was moving. He ran straight for the window, pointed his grappling hook at the glass and fired, letting the whole thing shatter into hundreds of thousands of pieces—and he leapt from Shido’s quarters and into a black, icy sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae) or [Tumblr](https://bvrnish.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
